


Somewhere Near the Equator, Aren't They?

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Rising Damp
Genre: And coming to terms with his sexuality, And coming to terms with the fact that Alan looks rather feminine in a certain light, Eye Contact, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, Neck Kissing, Older Man/Younger Man, Rigsby is emotionally stunted, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 06:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20578016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: Rigsby is furious when he finds Alan hidden in Miss Jones' room at night, especially when it scuppers his own chances of success with Miss Jones. But when he corners Alan, he finds out something which makes him feel differently towards him... And 'things' happen - things which I'm sure Rigsby wouldn't usually approve of!Set during Series 2, Episode 1 - The Permissive Society





	Somewhere Near the Equator, Aren't They?

_Ruined_. Absolutely _ruined_. The best chance he might ever have possibly had with Miss Jones - the closest he had _ever_ come so far... he had practically been able to _taste_ her sweet scent on the tip of his tongue, his nose stinging on the inside from the pungency of her strong perfume; he saw his own reflection in the dark dilating pupils of her eyes, shining in the night, lashes fluttering in his direction fifty to the dozen like a trapped bird's wings.  
  
She would have been _his_, at last. She just needed the smallest smidgen of persuasion... and Rupert Rigsby _almost_ did make it into Miss Jones' bed - until his chance was scuppered by Alan, who was hiding in Ruth's wardrobe, waiting to sneak out at the first opportunity, and who had the _audacity_ to pretend that he was bloody sleepwalking. What was _he_ doing there? _"The dirty little swine..."_ thought Rigsby. Just wait 'til he got his hands on him - he would wring his neck for trying to prey on poor, innocent Miss Jones.  
  
_"You? You call yourself a man?"_ he'd wanted to say to him. The sheer gall of that poncy good-for-nothing layabout. He would _never_ be good enough for _his_ Miss Jones - she'd never fall for his new-age permissive society nonsense. At the first opportunity, Rigsby was in Alan's room, rapidly moving the furniture around to create, essentially, what was a boxing ring - squaring up to fight Alan for her honour. The younger man scrambled backwards, mounting a dining chair to escape before the punches started flying.  
  
But, by the time he had Moore fenced against the wall, spoiling the already peeling, ragged avocado wallpaper - falling off the plasterwork from the sheer damp - the medical student would end up confessing something which would make Rigsby think twice about all of this: Alan hadn't been with Ruth at all - in fact, he'd never been with _anyone_ sexually - it was all bluster and chat. And to think that Rigsby had asked _him_ for advice, with all of his talk of the erogenous zones and such twaddle!

"You mean there's never been any coloured lights?" Rigsby challenged him. "No sea crashing up against the rocks?"

"No. Never. Never," Alan replied, still afraid of what Rigsby would do to him over the 'Miss Jones' incident.

"You-- You're a member of the permissive society," he stammered, "You're supposed to know where the erogenous regions are."

"I know where the Himalayas are, but I've never been up them!"

Rigsby almost felt sorry for him. Actually - he _did_ feel sorry for him. Even _he_ had done the deed (and more than once too!) with the estranged Mrs. Rigsby, with her fag permanently hanging out of her gob and her laugh like a pneumatic drill, and a few others he could name - even if they were nothing to write home about. Alan had _never_ felt the loving touch of a woman. To be truthful, Rigsby may have felt the aforementioned _touch_, but he doubted he could ever have called it _loving_. So, perhaps they were in the same boat after all. Perhaps they were missing the same thing from their lives.  
  
And Rigsby didn't know what had gotten into him when, after Alan's ex-girlfriend's father had burst in the room, accusing him of all sorts of things, he'd put himself in danger by chucking the brazen intruder out onto the street - or why, all of a sudden, he had felt such a sense of newfound fondness for the lad. "That was very good, Rigsby - you really told him off. I'm really grateful for that - I couldn't have done it without you," Alan gasped, astonished as the man ran from the building to his car, and Rigsby grinned at him in that inimitable way of his, clasping a hand to his shoulder in a friendly manner.  
  
_"You? You call yourself a man?"_ he had _wanted_ to say to Alan - well-groomed, with his silky, long hair - soft, moisturised skin - and tight, skinny-fit jeans. Rigsby quickly clocked that he was staring at Alan, his eyes raking over his lithe frame. The boy was more feminine than any woman that Rigsby had been fortunate enough to become familiar with. And, now, the heat was seeping through Moore's shirt with enough of a ferocity to scold Rigsby's hand, as he realised that his fingers had moved across his shoulder to his collarbone, his index finger just catching the bare skin peeking out from underneath.  
  
"Anytime... Anytime_,_" Rigsby said instead, shyly, not daring to retract his hand, "It was just like in the war. You know - when the chips are down." Gesturing as he spoke, his fingers lashed outwards slightly and his fingernails accidentally caught and tickled the side of Alan's neck, making the young man quiver with pleasure, just the tiniest bit. "Oh, look," Rigsby began to nervously chuckle, "I think I've... er... found one of those erogenous zones you were telling me about earlier. It didn't work when I blew in Miss Jones' ear. I was starting to think you'd made it up."  
  
"Maybe you just need more practice, eh?" Alan whispered. "Maybe we _both_ do," he told Rigsby, gently grasping the grubby green cardigan he always wore. The garment in question almost had a personality of its own - or was it just the fleas infesting it that made it seem like it was alive? But, in spite of Mr. Rigsby's imperfections, how had Alan never noticed before that he was _actually_ rather handsome for his age? He played with the cardi's material, rolling it between his digits, and met with his friend's eyes.

Rigsby swallowed hard, and felt himself become stiff as a board as he was manhandled, but - against his better judgement - he allowed Moore to continue. Nine times out of every ten, he'd have shoved him off and called him a poof - and, more so, he'd have done it five minutes ago, plus. They both knew that. And they both knew that, somehow, this time was different. It _was_ the tenth time. During this period, his hand had come to wrap around Alan's waist, pulling him close - Rigsby didn't even know he had it in him to be so tender.  
  
"Shall we start with this one?" Alan suggested, nuzzling the sensitive spot beneath Rigsby's ear, beginning to thirstily kiss and lap at the skin there - and the other man could do nothing but breathlessly, frantically and rigidly nod away, as Alan's fingertips slowly slipped themselves into the waistband of his trousers.

_"Please dear God, Miss Jones - just don't walk in right now,"_ the landlord prayed.


End file.
